


Becoming

by b_l_u_e__n_i_g_h_t_s



Category: EXO (Band), SHINee, SuperM (Korea Band)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Trainee Era, taekai - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-01-26 07:14:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21370243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/b_l_u_e__n_i_g_h_t_s/pseuds/b_l_u_e__n_i_g_h_t_s
Summary: There is a deep-rooted knowledge somewhere in Jongin's heart, the knowledge that he is different in a bad way. And so he tries to be better, to do better, to be perfect, to make the feeling go away.
Relationships: Kim Jongin | Kai/Lee Taemin
Comments: 15
Kudos: 206





	1. Becoming Kai.

8.

This is Jongin’s first clear memory: He is curled up on himself under his red wooden kid desk, tucked all the way into the corner, his face hidden in his palms. It is the night after his first ballet performance. He should have turned on time during that one difficult move, should have supported his arms more. He is afraid that he will never get it right. He suspects, though he has no way to put it into words, yet, that there is something wrong with him. Jongin tries to concentrate on the soft glow of his night light. The tiny bear lamp is scattering bright colors over his skin, but it can’t pull him out of his thoughts. So Jongin squeezes his eyes shut and digs his nails into the soft skin of his forearms, presses down as hard as he can.

It gets worse from there. There is a deep-rooted knowledge somewhere in his heart, the knowledge that he is different in a bad way. And so he tries to be better, to do better, to be perfect, to make the feeling go away.

But it never does.

13.

He has just turned thirteen when he is accepted into SM as a trainee, still trying to do his very best. He gets to take hip hop dance classes and the movements are all new and different. Jongin loves the challenge, loves learning how to make his body move in new ways. But the first time he is evaluated in front of everyone, he is so nervous that he trips and misses an important step. After, Jongin squeezes into a small space between the shower stall and the toilet of the bathroom he shares with seven other trainees. Only then does he allow the tears to fall. He rocks back silently, as much as the cramped space will allow, and starts to pick himself apart in his mind. All his faults, every mistake he remembers making, everything that went wrong in the evaluation that day. And then, when he cannot even really breathe anymore, he clenches his fists tight, presses his fingernails into the soft flesh of his palms until they scream in pain. Jongin slams his head back against the cold, hard tiles of the wall. Again. Again. Again.

Again.

Everything shatters red and hot.

Jongin blinks and the world tilts. For one moment, painfully bright, colorful light explodes behind his eyelids. Then, suddenly, the world turns black.

Jongin makes bad mistakes, stupid mistakes, he messes everything up with his awkwardness and the way he gets shy in every social situation. But the worst things happen when Jongin lies in his bed at night, almost asleep, his body so tired he wants to sleep forever. In those moments just before true sleep, his mind sneaks thoughts into his consciousness, projects images behind his eyelids. Disgusting things. Things Jongin doesn’t want. Doesn’t like. Doesn’t need. He makes them go away by pulling himself out of bed, no matter how numb his legs feel, and doing pushups until he passes out, his face smacking into the floor so hard his nose hurts the next morning.

The thoughts Jongin doesn’t have, doesn’t want, they are nameless, faceless, just silhouettes of want. Hot skin against his, lips pressing against his neck, fingers running down his body.

Jongin is still thirteen on the day he meets Lee Taemin. Taemin has been a trainee for two years by then. The two of them are paired in practice, are supposed to work on a choreography to see how well they perform as part of a duo. There is a fluid easiness to Taemin’s movements that Jongin cannot take his eyes off. He thinks: ‘I need to learn how to do that’, but what he says is: “How are you real?”

For a split second, Jongin hopes the ground will just open up for him to jump in, sink down, die a slow, agonizing death of suffocation. ‘This is why you shouldn’t open your dumb mouth,’ his mind provides. Unfortunately, the ground remains solid. Taemin stares at Jongin for a moment, his face a slack expression of ‘what?’, but in the end they both chose to pretend Jongin never said anything and continue with practice. Jongin is very grateful.

A few hours into their practice session, they are taking a break, both slick with sweat and in a heated discussion about a particular part in their choreography, when Taemin drops his water bottle onto his own toes. He yelps and bends down to pick it up but knocks down an expensive-looking glass speaker with his butt in the process. Taemin flushes beet red and hides his face in his hands. Jongin thinks he hears a mumbled “why am I so dumb”. It is silent for a moment, before they both break into snorting ugly-laughter. They pick up the shards of the speaker, tiny pieces of glass that fracture the bright ceiling light into splinters of color. During their next break, Jongin and Taemin both realize they forgot their wallets and can’t buy any food from the vending machines. At the end of the day, they are awkward, dumb, shy friends.

Fortunately, no one fines them for the broken speaker.

That night, just before Jongin slips into sleep, there are phantom fingers running over Jongin’s fever hot skin, his back arching up into the touch, a shiver spreading over his skin in ripples. Everything feels so much better than it ever has, so good Jongin can’t get out of bed to do push-ups, can’t stop himself from touching his stomach, sliding his hands down his body, following the trail of his almost-dream fantasy. That he doesn’t want. He doesn’t need. He closes his eyes, bits his lip hard enough to draw blood, and just before everything shakes apart, things get infinitely worse than they have ever been. Because Jongin’s world fractures to the image of Taemin’s body rolling against his, pretty eyes wide open and lips shaping Jongin’s name.

The next morning, Jongin pretends to forget what he saw. Because it was nothing, really. Nothing. The anxiety and the terrifying feeling of wrongness that sit in his stomach push him to work harder, to sleep less and stay in the practice rooms until he is kicked out every day. Taemin and Jongin become regular practice partners, meeting before anyone else shows up and staying the latest. Jongin feels nauseous a lot, which helps with maintaining his diet. He works his body so hard that he has no time for dreams and no thoughts to spare for fantasies. When he falls into bed at night, he just passes out. When he is told to lose some more weight to make his jawline more pronounced, the lines of his body longer, the only dreams he ever has are of tasty chicken and sweet tea, candy and chocolate milk. He welcomes them.

By then Jongin knows, of course, that the company is trying to turn them all into blank slates that they can write on, that they can turn into whatever they want them to become. He thinks that maybe he should try to stop them, to claim some sort of identity before they can decide who they want him to be. But he is so afraid, afraid of who he might be. Afraid of the ugly wrongness he can feel deep inside himself. So he lets them sand away the things they want gone, lets them tell him how to act, how to look, how to be. Until he isn’t sure he is a real person anymore.

14.

There is little time for anything in Jongin’s life but practice, school and sleep. What free time he has he spends with Taemin and their growing group of introverted, awkward friends. They play video games and go for walks and talk about dance, always, even when they are not dancing. They talk about girls sometimes, too. Jongin suspects everyone else is lying just as much as he is, when they say they are ‘totally super experienced’ when it comes to dating.

Jongin likes the routine that his life settles into. He likes the crazy pace of it that keeps him from thinking or feeling too much. He is not ready for things to change when Taemin is announced as a member of the new group SHINee. They are both still only fourteen. The day of the announcement, Jongin spends a long time in a small space under a storage shelf in the basement. Some trainees say there are ghosts in this part of the building. If there are, they don’t stop him from running a sharp blade over the skin of his thighs, making small red cuts, all neat. They don’t tell him to stop crying.

After, Jongin hates himself even more than before, somehow, and he is ashamed of how jealous he feels. He avoids Taemin for a while, making up excuses and never really looking him in the eyes. He hides in tight spaces, makes more red lines on his skin in hidden places. He tells himself: ‘I will never be good enough’ and he cries until his face is all ugly and bloated.

Taemin tries to practice with Jongin, still, but Jongin always finds reasons why he is busy. He manages to avoid Taemin until a few nights before SHINee’s debut. That night, Taemin calls him. Jongin ignores his phone, as has become habit in the past weeks. But Taemin calls again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And ag-

Jongin picks up with the intention to lie his way out of talking to his friend but falls silent because what he hears at the other end of the line sounds like near hysterical sobs.

“I – Taemin-ah, what happened?” He asks, his heart kicking up into panic.

The sobs grow louder, there are some fragments of words in there, too, but Jongin can’t understand them.

“Where are you?” He tries, but all he hears are unintelligible sounds of terror wrapped around his name.

Jongin makes it to Taemin’s new dorm in no time, somehow convinces security to let him in, greets a startled Minho on his way to Taemin’s room. It is all a blur until he is kneeling on the floor, his arms wrapped around Taemin’s shaking body. Taemin twists his fingers into Jongin’s sweatshirt and hides his face against Jongin’s neck. He is trying to say something but can’t seem to get the words out around the hiccups and the sobs that wreck his chest. Taemin's frame is, impossibly, even tinier than Jongin remembers, he is all hard edges and sharp bones pressing up against skin.

Jongin buries one hand in Taemin’s nape, the hair warm against his fingers, and gently runs his other hand up and down Taemin’s back. He whispers gentle things, soothing words, rocking back and forth slowly.

It takes a long time for Taemin’s breaths to even out and his body to stop shaking. Jongin’s shirt is wet by then, and his knees hurt like crazy. With a deep sigh, Taemin pushes back to look up at him. His face is stark white, but his eyes are blood-shot, the skin around them red and swollen. He looks absolutely miserable and Jongin thinks he has been the worst friend in the world. Because of course Taemin is terrified. And of course he feels alone, debuting this young, way too young.

“I can’t do it,” Taemin says, his voice hoarse and so small. Jongin blinks away the tears pricking his eyes. “I can’t do it, they won’t even let me sing.” Taemin’s shoulders shake in a dry sob.

Jongin touches the fingers of his right hand to Taemin’s cheek, runs his thumb over wet skin.

“Why can’t they let me debut with all of you, I don’t want to be alone,” Taemin whispers.

Jongin has been such an asshole. He blinks as fast as he can, but it’s not enough to keep his eyes from tearing up. “I’m sorry,” he says into the strange quiet between them, “I’m so sorry.” He pulls Taemin in again, hides his tears in Taemin’s hair, holds him so tight he is afraid he might be hurting him, but can’t let go. He whispers blurry words of apology and promises - promises that Taemin will be fine, that Jongin will stop being an asshole, that Taemin will never be alone.

They are both a complete mess when Taemin asks: “Will you stay?” They wash up, try to scrub away dried tears and snot, and Jongin borrows one of Taemin’s sleep-shirts and pajama pants that are wide enough to fit his taller frame. Taemin switches off the light, slips under his covers, scoots back all the way against the wall to make room for Jongin.

Taemin wraps his arms around Jongin and pulls him close. The familiar scent of his skin, the touch of his fingers, lets Jongin exhale in relief. He feels his world tilting back onto the right axis, everything somehow as it is supposed to be. Taemin buries his face in Jongin’s nape, mumbles something, sleepy and quiet, soft, his lips moving against Jongin’s skin. Jongin can feel his own pulse, a little too quick, pounding in his neck. He slides his fingers over Taemin’s, squeezes tight. Jongin’s shirt has ridden up, exposing a sliver of skin on his lower back that is touching Taemin’s stomach. Everything is a little bit too warm and Jongin tries to ignore the little fireworks exploding all over his skin, in his blood, making him restless. Jongin can feel Taemin’s heartbeat against his back, right between his shoulder blades. It is almost as fast as his own.

Jongin doesn’t think about what it would feel like to turn around, to touch the soft skin of Taemin’s stomach, to slide his fingers down, down. He doesn’t imagine the press of Taemin’s lips against his own, open and wet and inviting. Because Jongin doesn’t feel. Jongin doesn’t want.

It takes a long time until Jongin falls asleep.

After SHINee debuts, Taemin is always busy. Jongin doesn’t tell him that he misses him, doesn’t even really admit it to himself. Even though it is totally normal to miss your best friend, isn’t it? Jongin watches Taemin dance on TV and on stages, looking like his friend and not. His face is beautiful in perfect makeup, his eyes even more striking. Sometimes, for reasons he doesn’t think about, Jongin has to look away from the screen. He helps Taemin practice his choreography in the really uncomfortable clothes they make him wear on stage and is very proud when he sees Taemin getting less nervous with every broadcast. When Taemin spends time with Jongin, he looks just like he always has, face bare and clothes comfy and ratty, always a stain somewhere on his shirt. Jongin doesn’t understand why, but seeing Taemin like this makes his heart trip.

Jongin ups his practice routine, passes out at night, doesn’t think, doesn’t dream, doesn’t want.

15.

Sometime during his second year as trainee, Jongin starts waking up wet with cold sweat, his heart beating like crazy, his lungs too tight. The first time it happens he is so scared he calls Taemin even though it is the middle of the night and his friend has a busy schedule the next day. Taemin comes over, wraps his arms around him and holds him tight, holds him together so Jongin doesn’t break into a million pieces.

The panic comes more and more often, until Jongin spends most nights shaking and gasping for air. Sometimes, he deals with it by himself, breathes into his cupped hands until he is so exhausted he falls back asleep. But during the nights when it gets really bad, he sends Taemin a message. Jongin never really tells Taemin what is happening to him, doesn’t say: ‘There is something terrible and wrong inside of me and I am so afraid it will come out at night.’ But Taemin knows enough about fear and about being far away from home so young to tug a blanket around them, to build quiet, small, soft spaces for them to sit it, to bring colorful candy and warm hugs.

They are huddled together just like this, wrapped around each other under a warm blanket, when Taemin tells Jongin that he doesn’t really know how to kiss. Jongin bites the hard candy he is sucking on and looks at Taemin, the world suddenly consisting of nothing but Taemin’s eyelashes and the way they cast crescent-shaped shadows onto his cheeks.

“But you’ve had a girlfriend,” Jongin says and hopes it doesn’t sound as breathless and dumb as he suspects.

“Yeah, but we only ever kissed twice. And it was really weird,” Taemin supplies. He is unwrapping a green apple flavored chewing candy, his focus on his fingers. “I think it would help if I knew how to do it right. You know, for when I find a girl I really like,” Taemin continues. Jongin thinks he nods.

There must be a fracture in reality then, because Jongin blinks and Taemin’s face is suddenly, inexplicably, closer to his, with wide eyes and lips that smell like candy.

Taemin says something. Jongin hears white noise and his own heartbeat.

Jongin nods. He doesn’t know why he nods.

Reality fractures again. Taemin leans in, close, close, presses his lips against Jongin’s mouth, his eyes fluttering shut. Taemin’s lips, they taste like apples, like sugar, warm. Little bubbles burst in Jongin’s blood, make him dizzy, dizzy. There are fingers in his hair, on his jaw. He thinks he inhales a breath that was Taemin’s, warm air and fizzy candy. Jongin tries very hard not to think, not to feel, not to want. He slides his hands into Taemin’s hair, swallows the breathy sound Taemin makes as he twists his fingers, pulls. The world tumbles, tilts, Jongin is on his back, Taemin holding him down so he doesn’t float away. Jongin tries to say something, but the sound gets lost on the way from his throat to his mouth, somehow, and what comes out is a whimper that Taemin licks from his lips.

After that night, Jongin still wakes up with fear on his tongue and no air in his lungs most nights. He continues to deal with it by himself if he can, calls Taemin when it gets too bad. Calls Taemin when it really isn’t all that bad, sometimes, too. But he doesn’t think too much about that. They convince themselves and each other that they might need more practice kissing so they will be well prepared when they find girlfriends.

Some time after his fifteenth birthday, Taemin wraps a blanket around Jongin and himself, so the world is all dark and quiet.

He says: “I think there is something wrong with me.” Jongin frowns, though it’s too dark for Taemin to see.

“It’s like this,” Taemin says, “I think I used to have a crush on this girl at school, because she likes to talk about dancing and Pokémon and she plays video games with me sometimes during break.” Taemin touches his fingers to Jongin’s forearm, five hot points of contact that sink into Jongin’s bones, that feel more real than Jongin feels himself.

“But that’s normal, right?” Jongin asks. “I mean, that’s how it’s supposed to be.” He crushes the stupid, stupid way his stomach aches, the sinking feeling in his gut.

“I-“ Taemin swallows, too loud, his throat clicking dry and nervous, “but-“ the fingertips still touching Jongin’s forearm are suddenly sweaty. “I feel the same way, though, now, the same weird fluttering feeling, about this boy I know.” Jongin’s gut twists again. It hurts real bad. “This boy that dances like liquid fire and that I can beat at Mortal Combat.” Taemin’s breath is quick and shallow, his words a little messy. Jongin decides to very much ignore the fact that he sucks at Mortal Combat.

“Maybe,” Jongin says after a long silence, when he trusts his voice again, “maybe you’re just a little confused. Experimenting. Maybe that’s just, you know, healthy and you will settle for a nice girl soon enough?” Nobody has to know. Maybe it’s true for Jongin, too? Maybe they will just grow out of it. Teenage hormones going crazy, that’s a thing, isn’t it?

“Maybe,” Taemin says. He sounds even more lost and more confused and sadder, somehow, than he did before.

16.

When Jongin turns sixteen, Jonghyun decides Taemin and Jongin are old enough to drink (which they most definitely are not). He makes them drinks that taste treacherously sweet, like juice and fresh fruit. Jongin’s head gets fuzzy really quickly and he can see Taemin’s cheeks getting red. Their voices turn slurry and strange, all words won’t really come out right anymore, something that seems to amuse Jonghyun to no end. They are sitting in the SHINee dorm living room with Minho (who is still protesting the under-age drinking), Jinki (who is already pretty drunk himself), Jonghyun and Key. Jongin has had two non-juices and feels like the world is spinning a little faster than usual, and his cheeks are really warm.

Key decides to teach Jongin and Taemin proper drinking etiquette, while Jonghyun talks over him, telling them to just down everything as quickly as possible and fuck all etiquette.

It gets pretty difficult to follow anything they are saying, maybe because their words are getting fuzzy and maybe because there is an increasing, strange, warm slowness to the way Jongin’s mind is working. Jongin watches Taemin smile a sweet, confused smile. Taemin looks up into the ceiling light and his eyes turn to liquid gold. Jongin blinks, tries to move his gaze back to Jinki, can’t. Jongin is forgetting important things, things he is supposed not to do. There are rules, important rules, rules he can’t remember. His mind is spinning with the sweet, sticky drink he is sipping. Jongin forgets not to think, and what he thinks is this: All the things he tells Taemin about girls he is interested in, are lies. Jongin forgets not to want, and what he wants is this: To lie in a white, soft space with Taemin, very close, to smell Taemin’s clean sweat and warm hair and feel the bite of teeth against his lower lip, Teamin’s tongue licking into his mouth, warm and eager. Jongin forgets not to feel, and what he feels is-

Jongin excuses himself, walks into the nearest bathroom and splashes ice cold water onto his face. He looks at himself in the mirror, sees flushed cheeks and wide open eyes. “Stop,” he says quietly. “Stop.” He presses his nails into the soft flesh on the inside of his elbows until the skin breaks. “Stop,” he says, his voice firmer. He closes doors inside of himself, one by one, locks the wrongness inside, wraps barbed wire around the bad thoughts.

When he enters the living room again, he is a young idol hanging out with his elders, learning from them and trying to socialize because that is how he is supposed to behave. He doesn’t eat the food offered, because he needs to watch his weight. He doesn't look at Taemin too much, because why would he want to? He drinks plenty of water in between the alcohol because he will have to get up early the next morning for practice. To become better. To be better. He will become just what and who he is supposed to be.

18.

Jongin is eighteen and sitting in an empty dance practice room. He is looking in the mirror, Kai is looking back at him. His cheeks are sunken in, his skin sickly pale, his jawline sharp as a razor blade. They are really happy with his dieting progress, he has almost hit his target weight. Jongin is hungry all the time now. Kai needs to be perfect for the debut, he needs to be exactly who they want him to be. Jongin is afraid all the time, afraid that they will see the wrongness inside of him. That they will see how very imperfect he really is. Jongin thinks about making more cuts on his skin, in hidden places, like he used to, just to calm down a little. But there are not many places left that he can hide from Taemin, and he doesn’t want Taemin to know.

Jongin lies down, lifts his head, lets it fall to the ground with a crack. Lifts it again, lets it fall. Again. Again.

Again.

He is sick all over the floor. All he heaves up is sticky, yellow bile. The smell turns his stomach again.

Jongin is tired, so tired, all the time. He doesn’t remember ever being this tired. He doesn’t get to see Taemin very often anymore, they are both too busy. They steal moments, sometimes, coffees on the rooftop of the building, joint practice sessions late at night, nights spent under the same blanket that they don’t talk about and Jongin tries not to remember. Jongin still wakes up sweaty and cold and shaking at night. Sometimes he is so terrified, his lungs so desperate for air, that he thinks he is dying.

The week before Kai’s official debut, Jongin wakes up just like that, in a blind panic of drowning, of suffocating, of being ripped apart from the inside out. He cups his hands around his mouth, tries to breath, tries to calm himself down. It takes forever for the terror to subside, only when Jongin’s body runs out of energy does he draw a shaky, deep breathe. It tastes like iron. Jongin gets up, sneaks down the hallway to the bathroom and sits down in the shower, turns on the warm water, lets it run over his sticky, salty skin. He rests his forehead against his drawn-up knees and cries. What if he can’t do this? What if he is truly broken? What if he will never be normal? The sobs hurt his aching chest even more, rattle his ribs. Jongin is cold, even under the warm spray of the shower. He is a shell with the right hair color and the right weight, the assigned amount of muscle and a nose that has been set into perfect symmetry by a skilled surgeon. Kai is sure of himself, just a little bit cocky, with a cute smile, ready to fall for a pretty girl. Kai is the perfect balance of hot and sweet, sinful and innocent. Kai is beautiful and without flaw. Behind that perfect facade, there is an empty space so vast that his heartbeat echoes loud and strange inside of him. That empty space used to be a person, used to be Jongin, afraid and awkward and stupid, with hopes and dreams and lots of colorful candy and fireworks beneath his skin. A person that forgot his wallet and hated coffee, that watched the light turn Taemin’s eyes into honey.

Jongin draws his arms around his knees, tries to make himself smaller, to conserve what little body heat he has left. He rocks back and forth. Jongin has tried for so long not to think, not to feel, not to want. And now he doesn’t, he doesn’t remember how to. He is not a real person anymore at all. But he is perfect. He is exactly who and what he is supposed to be.


	2. Becoming Whole.

19.

Kai pulls his best signature smirk, his hips rolling until he can’t hear his own voice over the roar of the crowd. He turns on point, drops in one perfect, fluid move, hitting the beat with pops so quick they take all his strength to execute. Kai’s makeup is still set, his hair falling into his face just the way it’s supposed to, when he finally steps off stage, adrenaline pumping through his veins.

He bows deeply, thanks everyone on the crew, hugs his bandmates, drinks the water that is shoved into his hand. The blood is rushing in his ears, he is feeling amazing. He is perfect. He did good.

A sleek black car takes Kai to his hotel room for a scheduled six hours of sleep until they have to travel to the next venue early in the morning. He pulls the door closed behind him, and suddenly all is quiet.

There is nothing here, just a nondescript hotel room. His suitcase is sitting next to the door, clean and new and packed with clothes he is supposed to wear and promote. The bathroom is decorated with tasteful cream and gold accents. He looks at himself in the large mirror. Someone has placed a skin care kit on the counter. He uses the cleansing foam to wash off all remaining makeup. Kai slips off his face and a sallow ghost appears, deep bruises now visible underneath his eyes.

“Who are you?”, he asks into the eerie quiet.

Jongin pulls the razor from the kit on the counter, strips out of the expensive stage clothes he is still wearing, carefully folds them and hangs them up.

The shower is spacious. He pulls the glass door closed, presses his body into the corner against the cold cream tiles, runs the water hot enough to hurt. Jongin carefully breaks one of the blades out of the plastic razor. He turns it in his hands a few times, lets his right leg drop to the side to bare the fine white marks high enough on his thigh to hide. He knocks his head back against the tiles until the world gets a little blurry and his stomach roils. His heart beats erratic and loud in the gaping emptiness inside of him. Jongin runs the blade over his skin, making a tiny red line, presses it deeper, deeper, making the blood run. He doesn’t feel. Doesn’t think. Doesn’t want.

20.

He doesn’t have time to meet Taemin very often. They practice together sometimes if their busy schedules allow. The truth is that he is trying to avoid Taemin more and more. Because it is very hard to hold onto the perfect shell that is Kai when he is with his friend. Because the wrongness rears its head more often when he is with Taemin, and it is getting harder and harder to push it back down.

But when Taemin carefully rearranges his schedule for Jongin’s birthday and organizes a party for him, Jongin has no excuse, no way to avoid a night spent with friends and family.

Taemin rents out a cozy restaurant that makes wonderful food and is small enough for Jongin not to feel too exposed, too scared in. Because despite Jongin’s shitty attempts at avoiding him, Taemin is still his best friend and still wonderful. Taemin is wearing a bright yellow sweater when he comes to pick Jongin up in his new car. He looks like the sun. Jongin is so cold. Taemin chatters away on the drive to the restaurant, filling the silence so Jongin’s anxiety has no room. Jongin reaches out and touches his fingers to Taemin’s right hand. He closes his eyes and tries not to feel.

His parents are already sitting at the table, chatting with his oldest sister and her husband. Their kids are trying very hard to stay awake, but it is clear that it is way past their regular bedtime. Jongin’s heart does a strange twist and he has to press his palm against his sternum for a moment to stifle the sharp pain in his chest. Taemin places a warm hand onto his lower back, gently knocks his head against Jongin’s shoulder in quiet comfort. How he always knows is a mystery to Jongin.

He gets warm hugs and concerned comments about his weight, quiet praise for EXO’s achievements and happy birthday wishes. The rest of his family arrive, and all of their friends. Jongin has no idea how Taemin pulled this off, everyone is always so busy, it has been years since everyone who is important to him was in the same room.

They order food and drinks, his mother ordering an extra plate of everything after poking his hollow stomach with a concerned glance. It is a wonderful evening, everyone is laughing and talking over each other. Taemin is telling his second-oldest sister one bad joke after the other, making her cry tears of laughter, erasing the hurt and the worried way she was looking at Jongin earlier in the night.

Jongin sips his third colorful cocktail when he finally feels a little warmth spreading inside of him, erasing some of the bitter cold that has become his constant companion. He rests his head on Taemin’s shoulder that is twitching from all the excited gesturing accompanying his next terrible joke. Jongin closes his eyes, hears his sister and his mother laugh loud, stupid belly laughs. Taemin is so warm, he thinks. So warm and so bright and so beautiful. His own personal sun. Maybe the yellow of his sweater will bleed onto Jongin and lend him some warmth?

When the night wraps up, everyone is full and Jongin sees so many familiar, happy faces, is wrapped up in hugs and smiles and love.

Before he starts his car, Taemin pulls out a gift box. “Got you something, of course,” he says. He looks nervous all of a sudden, his eyelids blinking rapidly.

Jongin takes the wrapped box. “Thank you,” he says. He feels so strange, he feels so far away, so very unreal. He wishes he could tell Taemin, tell him that he is slowly disappearing.

“Open it later, yeah?”, Taemin asks and starts the car. Jongin nods. He looks at Taemin while they move through the quiet streets. The lights of the city create ever changing patterns of brightness on Taemin’s face, Jongin watches them, lets them calm the skin-crawling anxiety in his blood. He feels like crying.

Taemin says goodbye with a long hug and lips pressed to Jongin’s mouth, chaste and quick. When he is gone and Jongin closes the door to his room, everything is empty and strange and wrong and Jongin feels lost and so hollow. It feels wrong that Taemin is not here, that they don’t share a bed, a home, that they are always too far apart, even when they are together. Jongin tries to push those thoughts down, down, but his mind just won’t shut up.

He sits down on his cold bed and pulls the wrapping off the small gift box Taemin gave to him. A silver locket sits on black velvet. Jongin snaps it open. There is a tiny piece of glass in it that reflects the light, breaking it into beautiful colors.

Jongin opens the letter folded into the box next to it. It reads:

‘Remember the first day we met? I was so embarrassed when I knocked that stupid speaker down. Because you were so sharp and graceful and I was trying pretty hard to impress you, but I was such a klutz. I saved this piece of the speaker when we were cleaning up, though. I’ve been keeping it with me for good luck. I haven’t been anywhere without it for almost a decade. But I want to give it to you now. Happy Birthday, Jongin. I am so thankful that we met that day. I am so thankful that you are in my life. -T’

A tear drips onto the tiny piece of glass, onto the letter, onto Jongin’s hands. He tries to push all thoughts and all feelings down, down, down,

down

but they won’t go away. His shoulders shake like crazy and he has to place the gift on his bedside table or risk dropping it to the floor. Jongin curls up on himself on the bed, tries to make himself as small as possible, bites his lip to keep his sobs from breaking free. He thinks about his family and his friends, about the way they were happy and together and celebrating with him only an hour ago. He wonders if they would have celebrated with him like that if they knew. He wonders if he would lose everyone, everything, if he told them about the wrongness inside of him that just won’t go away, even though he has been trying so hard to erase it that he has erased most of himself in the process.

What if those are his only true choices? Being himself and losing everyone he loves because of it, or erasing himself trying to become someone they can love? The emptiness in the shell that is Kai hurts so much, hurts so much every day. But how much more would it hurt to see the look of love bleed from his parents’ faces? From the eyes of his sisters and his friends?

Jongin gets up on shaking legs, the world spinning in strange patterns that are making him sick. He pulls his desk drawer open, reaches back all the way, pulls out a matchbook he has been keeping there for a while now.

He opens his closet, reaches behind his well-worn practice sneakers, rummages through clothes he never wears, pulls out the red and white shoe box stuffed underneath a pile of bags. He opens the lid of the box, touches the cool black briquettes he placed inside almost two years ago. He runs his fingertips over the neat pattern of the holes inside the coal.

The shaking has stopped.

So have the tears.

Jongin gets up, strangely calm, and leaves for the kitchen to find something fireproof to light the coal on. It is quiet in the dorm, the only sound the quiet flow of late night traffic that filters in through the opened skylight in one of the bathrooms. Jongin passes Junmyeon’s room on the way to the kitchen. He must already be asleep. Jongin stops in front of the door, his heartbeat loud and strange in the eerie silence. He tries to turn away, sneak into the kitchen, but something keeps him rooted the spot, looking at Junmyeon’s door. Jongin’s vision is strangely acute, the noises of the night loud and reverberating in the hollow emptiness inside of him. He doesn’t know what makes him reach out, rap his knuckles on the wooden door in front of him, louder than his strange heartbeat.

Junmyeon opens the door a moment later, blinking blearily in the dim hallway light. He takes one look at Jongin and pulls him into a tight hug. The strange calm crumbles, the numbness in Jongin brakes, and he starts to cry, huge sobs wrecking his shoulders, making it hard to breathe. Junmyeon walks them back, closes the door to his room behind them. He runs his palms over Jongin’s back, up and down, down and up, again and again, rocks him back and forth, soothing, whispers quiet words that make the tears come faster. “I’m here, I’m here, you are not alone.”

Everything about Junmyeon is safe. Jongin has no idea how he does it, how he has been holding them all together since their debut, even though he must have been so scared and lonely, because he was so very young when they made him leader. Jongin cries until there are no tears left, lets himself be held. He is shaking, his mind catching up with the terror and the terrible finality of the decision he almost made. When his legs give out, Junmyeon helps him to sit on the bed that smells familiar and safe. He looks at Jongin, his hands running up and down Jongin’s arms.

“What happened?”, Junmyeon asks. Jongin has been lying to everyone about so many things for so long. Maybe it’s the terror coursing in his veins that makes him tell the truth now.

“There is something wrong with me,” he says. His voice sounds strange. “There is something very wrong with me and I tried to make it go away, but I can’t. So I tried to make myself go away.” He looks down, it is too hard to say these things while looking at Junmyeon. “I tried, but I came to you instead.”

It is silent for a while. Jongin finally looks up to meet Junmyeon’s gaze again. Junmyeon looks very scared and very concerned. He squares his shoulders, shakes his head. “Jongin,” he finally says, his voice a little broken even though he is trying to be strong for the both of them. He wraps his arms around Jongin, squeezes him very close, holds him so tight it hurts a little. Jongin buries his wet face in Junmyeon’s shoulder, still shaking.

“Jongin, love, what could be so wrong to make you feel this way?”, Junmyeon asks after a long moment.

Jongin swallows. He is scared, so scared. “I’m in love with Taemin,” he admits in a very quiet voice. He mumbles the words into Junmyeon’s shoulder, but that doesn’t make them any less true, any less terrible. “I am in love with him like I could never be in love with any girl.” Junmyeon is silent, lets Jongin talk. The words, hidden for so long, slip out between Jongin’s lips. He tells Junmyeon how much he hates himself because he knows it is wrong to feel this way, to want the things he wants. He tells him, too, that he has tried not to feel like this, not to want like this, but nothing ever really made it all go away. “I should leave,” he says, “leave EXO, because what if it all comes out? What if I end up not being able to control it any longer? I need to leave, I can’t risk pulling you all into this, I need to – “

Junmyeon pulls back, then, and Jongin feels it like a punch to the stomach. He coils in on himself, nods, scrambles back, back, away. But Junmyeon catches his hands before he gets very far. Jongin dares to look at his face.

Junmyeon looks stricken and so sad. He slides his hands up unto Jongin’s forearms and looks him dead in the eye. “I don’t know who made you think like this, Jongin,” he says, “but you need to stay. You need to stay and be our Jongin. And if anyone ever gives you shit for who you are and who you love, you come to me and it will be dealt with, understood?”

Jongin swallows. His mind is blank for a moment, he is scared of Junmyeon, of the conviction and the threat in his eyes. Jongin takes a deep breath. He thinks that he is very lucky to have Junmyeon, and he knows, has always known, that Junmyeon would do everything to protect EXO, to protect Kai. He just never thought that Junmyeon might be just as ruthless and fierce when it comes to protecting Jongin.

Jongin tries to say something but ends up sobbing and crying again. Junmyeon looks very sad. He wipes the tears off Jongin’s cheeks, even though new ones replace them right away. “Jongin, you are okay the way you are. I am so sorry for what you are going through. I am so sorry I didn’t know, I should have noticed.” He cards his fingers through Jongin’s hair.

It’s all so much, too much. Jongin feels overwhelmed and scared and deeply exhausted all at once. Junmyeon hears his whispered ‘I don’t want to be alone’, pulls him down, wraps him in a warm, soft blanket, draws him in against his chest, holds him close. Jongin just can’t stop crying. Junmyeon whispers into Jongin’s hair, soft words that sink into him, wrap around his scared heart. “Thank you for telling me,” he whispers, “thank you for trusting me enough to tell me, Jongin. I am so proud of you. And I love you. I love you and I will always be on your side.”

Jongin’s eyelids are swollen and itchy and heavy, it is too hard to hold his eyes open any longer. His heart beats slow and steady, tries to match the soothing rhythm of Junmyeon’s pulse.

Junmyeon gently runs his hand down Jongin’s spine. “You may not be able to tell everyone, the company and the world, yet. You may never be able to tell everyone,” Junmyeon whispers, “but you can trust me. And you can trust the rest of the band. Trust them with yourself. You don’t have to be alone. We will always be on your side, Jongin, I promise. Always.”

Jongin ends up telling them the next morning over breakfast. He is pale and he feels tiny and guilty and far away from himself. He can’t meet any of their eyes, just stares at his fingers on the table, watches them shake nervously. But he says it – that he is gay. Speaking the word sounds true and terrible and terrifying. It takes all of his courage to look up, then. They seem taken aback, he sees confusion in familiar faces. But mainly, they look concerned.

Jongin fiddles with his fingers, drops his gaze again. Nobody says anything. Until Junmyeon breaks the silence. “Anyone with a problem takes it straight to me, understood?”, he asks. It sounds like a threat.

“You look so scared and so sad,” Baekhyun finally says.

Jongin nods. “I understand that this is – I still think I should leave, before any of you get caught up in- “

“What?” Chanyeol says, sounding incredulous. A chair is pushed back. “No, you shouldn’t, what are you talking about?” Jongin jumps when the first pair of arms wraps around him. Kyungsoo’s, he realizes. Chanyeol is next. Minseok pulls himself up onto the table, touches his forehead to Jongin’s in silent affection. And then Jongin is wrapped up in gentle hugs and quiet words of support and comfort. He cries again, shakes and shakes and tries to say thank you, but the words won’t come out.

A few days later, Jongin is sitting in his room, trying to go throughs a new part of choreography in his mind, when Minseok and Baekhyun come in without knocking. They wit down on Jongin’s bed, all weirdly serious. Jongin is scared immediately.

“Look,” Minseok says, “I promise we didn’t mention you or any specifics, we kept your confidence, I swear. But we’re really worried about you.” He gestures nervously.

“We called Key,” Baekhyun supplies. “And he has no idea it was about you. Promise.” He looks at Minseok, back at Jongin. “He gave us the number of a councilor he used to see a few years ago, when he was going through something similar to what you are going through.”

“Because we are worried about you,” Minseok repeats. He pulls out a piece of paper and waves it awkwardly. “The number,” he says.

Jongin nods and takes the piece of paper. He doesn’t know what to say.

Baekhyun’s face transforms into his usual self, a smile spreading on his lips. “Sooooo,” he says, way too loud, “is there someone in particular who has been making you think about your feelings for boys lately?” He grins a Cheshire grin. Jongin goes beet red instantly and stammers a response that is supposed to say ‘it’s none of your business’ but ends up being nothing more than a few nonsensical sounds. Baekhyun points at him and yells: “Aha!” And Minseok bursts out laughing.

“Tell us, tell us,” Minseok says, “It’s our duty as your older brothers to make sure whoever it is gets properly vetted so we know he is worth your time and good enough for you.” He nods like he’s proud of himself.

Jongin tells them to shut up and mind their own business and it feels like the times they all teased Chen about his girlfriend, how they clowned Chanyeol about the girl he was crushing on earlier that year. Jongin doesn’t tell them about Taemin, because it feels like too big of a secret to share, yet. But for the first time in a long time, maybe ever, Jongin thinks that he might be okay.

20.

So maybe this wasn’t the best idea he’s ever had, Jongin thinks when he pulls the sad remains of a burnt chicken breast from the pan. Kyungsoo said this recipe was fool proof. Apparently it’s not Jongin proof, though. He scratches his head, opens the kitchen window wide to let some of the smell of burnt food out. Damnit. Is it too late to order in? He looks at the sticky, overcooked mess he made of the rice, panics and searches the fridge for leftovers he may be able to heat up.

Why in the world he thought it was a good idea to cook tonight is beyond him. It is probably the freaking nerves. He can’t stop thinking about what he is going to say, turning the words over and over in his head, trying to find the perfect way to say it all.

Maybe if Kyungsoo was here, he could salvage something from the wreck Jongin made of this dinner, but Baekhyun took the him out for a nice dinner and dancing along with the rest of the band. With a stupid wink towards Jongin as he closed the door that made Jongin turn beet red yet again.

When the doorbell rings, Jongin is still standing in the kitchen with messy hair, a sweaty forehead, no perfect words ready and dinner a disaster all around him.

Taemin is wearing jeans and a bright blue sweater, looking like the summer sky at noon. Jongin chokes on ‘hello’, which doesn’t seem like the best omen for how the rest of the night will go.

“Hi,” Taemin says and pulls Jongin into a hug. “I smell fire, Jongin.” He seems way too nonchalant about the prospect of an open fire in the dorms. “Smells like when I accidentally brunt pizza in the toaster.”

“Why would you put pizza in the-“ Jongin draws back from their hug, a little shaky and a little embarrassed and a little stupid and so nervous he thinks he might throw up on Taemin’s yellow socks.

Jongin thinks: ‘Everything is more beautiful because of you’, but he says “I burnt our dinner.”

They order a bucket of chicken and some sides from a place close by and sit down on the floor of Jongin’s room.

“You cleaned up,” Taemin remarks. He turns the beer bottle in his hand. They don’t drink very often, but Jongin has decided that he definitely needs some liquid courage tonight. He stutters through a conversation about Taemin’s schedule and a business deal gone wrong one of their friends got caught up in. When the food arrives, they eat in what Jongin hopes seems like companionable silence, but is really his nerves rendering him speechless, senseless. He doesn’t taste the chicken, can’t meet Taemin’s eyes through the entire meal, even though he’s had two bottles of beer.

“Okay, what is up with you, you’re all weird today,” Taemin says when they’re done eating.

Jongin tries to breathe in, tries not to barf up all the chicken he ate. “I-, “he says dumbly. This was supposed to be a wonderful evening, with a well-cooked meal and time to get changed into something nice, his hair done and his nerves calm. He fidgets. Maybe tonight is just not a good moment to do this. He doesn’t have to say it now. Maybe in a few weeks-

“Jongin, are you okay?”, Taemin asks into the strange silence. Jongin tries very hard to say something but can’t make the words come out. Damnit, this s not how it was supposed to go.

Taemin scoots closer and it gets even harder for Jongin to breathe. “Hey, did something happen? Talk to me,” Taemin’s face is full of concern, his voice warm and gentle.

Jongin closes his eyes, because he is a coward, takes one deep breath and says: “I’m gay.”

“I-,“ Taemin stammers, “I thought - I thought there was no way that-“ Jongin lifts his gaze to see Taemin’s cheeks flushed. Taemin looks so nervous and so strange and so far away and everything is wrong, all wrong.

Jongin apologizes, dread filling his chest. “I shouldn’t have told you,” he whispers, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, this is strange, I shouldn’t have-“ his voice breaks, he feels so powerless and stupid and embarrassed and terrified. Terrified Taemin will stop being friends with him, that he will stop toughing him, that he will stop sharing his bed. Terrified to lose all he had. He should have kept it all inside, he should have taken what he got and been thankful and left it at that. Maybe he should have stayed Kai, perfect and empty. He should have kept his fucking mouth shut. Please don’t go, he thinks. Please don’t go. Please don’t go. Please don’t go.

Taemin takes a deep breath, then. He looks like he looks before he walks onto a huge stage, before he starts a particularly scary live performance, like he is the bravest person on the plant (and he is, Jongin thinks). Taemin touches all of his fingers to Jongin’s face, ten points of warmth and connection. He looks at Jongin so open, with his soul all the way visible, and asks: “Can I kiss you?” Taemin shakes his head a little, “not for practice and not because we’re too busy to find a girlfriend,” he whispers, his voice shaky and thin, “but because I really, really want to.” Jongin nods dumbly and makes a sound, all soft, when Taemin’s lips press against his.

Time shifts, everything shifts, they kiss desperate and sweet and open. Jongin is very dizzy and very overwhelmed and he doesn’t want it to stop, ever. He pulls Taemin’s hair too hard, buries his fingers in the summer sky of his sweater, makes him come closer, closer, closer.

Taemin crawls all over Jongin, makes him moan and sigh and sob. They move to Jongin’s bed, though Jongin can’t keep track of time and space that well anymore. They strip and learn each other in this new way, a little rushed, because they can’t seem to stop to draw a breath, to slow down. It is all scary and strange and new, but somehow it is also already strangely familiar in a very comforting way. Because this is Taemin, Jongin’s best friend, who he has known for so long. He is Taemin in this, too: Familiar and comforting and beautiful and stubborn and clumsy and brave, so brave. Taemin, who held Jongin during panic and anxiety and fear and hurt, through being sick and being happy, through being elated and hurt and confused and brilliantly happy, even when Jongin was trying so hard not to feel. Taemin, who asked his opinions and thoughts on big things and small, always, even when Jongin was trying so hard not to think. Taemin, who he has been in love with for so long, even when he was trying desperately not to want.

They fall apart together, looking into each other’s eyes, touching everywhere, skin to skin, head to toe, and Jongin feels so much more real than he ever has.

After, they lie on Jongin’s bed together. Taemin touches the scars all high up on Jongin’s thighs. He whispers questions and Jongin tells him, tells him everything. About the hurt and the emptiness inside of him, about razorblades and coal briquettes hidden in his closet. About Kai and his attempts at becoming perfect.

Taemin cries quiet tears into Jongin’s shoulder, hides kisses behind his ear, in his hair, presses his lips to Jongin’s eyelids, the tip of his nose, the arc of his collarbones, the place where his heart beats against his ribs. “No matter how perfect Kai may become,” Taemin whispers into the quiet, “you are so much for beautiful, you are so much more wonderful.” He kisses Jongin’s fingertips, one after the other, rubs his nose against the pulse point in Jongin’s wrist. “I love you, Jongin,” Taemin says, his voice soft but sure.

Jongin swallows his tears to answer, tries to speak around the chaos in his mind. “I love you,” he says against Taemin’s lips. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

21.

Jongin ends up going to the councilor Key suggested. He is really a psychotherapist, one who listens and doesn’t judge, who helps him deal with the hurt and the emptiness and the way he always pushes himself too far. Therapy and Taemin and his bandmates’ support give him the strength to tell more people about himself, to be more open with the people that are important to him. Sometimes, his fears become true and people look disgusted with him. Some looks scared, some unhappy. Some look confused, others never spear to him again. Some people stop touching him. But many smile and hug him and he feels closer to them after, because he gets to share his true self with them. His parents tell him that they love him and are proud of the man that he has become. And his sisters, they cuddle him close, make him his favorite food and tell him to finally spill the beans about Taemin, then. He hasn’t told them about Taemin, yet, and is shocked by how they could possibly know.

“You’re such an idiot sometimes,” they laugh in unison, rolling their eyes. “Don’t be silly,” his oldest sister says, her voice soft, “we’re your sisters, dummy-brother, of course we know.” She grins at him. “And now spill, we want the whole story.” They both look happy for him, and they playfully threaten to castrate Taemin if he should ever hurt Jongin.

23.

Jongin throws the remote across the room. If he watches one more terrible Sci-Fi movie, he is going to kill someone. Fuck everything, fuck this, fuck his life, fuck Taemin for being so fucking nice to him.

Taemin rushes in from their kitchen, eyes wide and a dripping cooking spoon in his hand. “What happened?” he asks.

“The aliens were stupid. The movie was stupid. This is stupid,” Jongin pouts.

Taemin sighs, waves the spoon around, drippings sauce everywhere in the process. “I’m sure you will be healed and ready to dance again in no time,” he says for what seems like the one millionth time in the past few weeks.

Jongin crosses his arms, stares pointedly at the bandaged ankle he has propped up on the coffee table. “I hate this,” he answers, also for the millionth time. Jongin’s skin is crawling with pent up energy. He has been unable to dance for nearly two months and he misses it. Misses it so badly, he can hardly breathe around it. He’s been throwing stupid fits in between bouts of feeling depressed and hardly finding the energy to get out of bed in the morning. People are worried about him. He knows, even when they don’t say anything. He can see it in their eyes. They make him go see his therapist more frequently. Which helps, okay, but still, they shouldn’t treat him like a fucking baby. And everyone stops by all the fucking time, he can hardly get some peace and quiet. Just yesterday, his sister brought a shit ton of food and DVDs – who even watches DVDs anymore? - and more get-well drawings from his niece and nephew. The drawings, he carefully taped to the kitchen wall, made sure to video call the kids and tell them thank you. But his sister, he cursed at her for being an annoying hag, because it’s bad enough his mother won’t leave him be.

“I’m making lunch, I’ll help you with the exercises after,” Taemin says and returns to the kitchen. Fuck physiotherapy. It’s not helping anyways; his ankle is still shot to all hell. Fuck this. Fuck everything.

Jongin gets up, using his stupid crutches to follow Taemin into the kitchen. Why is Taemin being so goddamn nice to him even though he has been crabby and shitty and annoying the entire day?

He leans against the doorframe. From the looks of it, Taemin is trying his best to cook. The kitchen looks like the aftermath of a devastating natural disaster.

“I’m sorry,” Jongin says in a small voice. Taemin turns around. “I’m sorry I yelled. I’m sorry for being so shitty to you.”

Taemin nods. “I know. I know this is really hard for you. I couldn’t take it any better if it was me who was injured.”

The thought of an injured Taemin makes Jongin’s chest ache. “I miss dancing so much,” Jongin says. It should not come as this much of a surprise. But part of him has always wondered how much of his passion for dancing was the relentless drive for perfection that is Kai, how much of it was the indoctrination and the constant pressure of this career he chose when he was only a child. But he misses dancing on a visceral level, misses expressing himself through movement, losing himself in the music, melting into a choreography that feels just right.

Taemin turns off the stove and wraps his arms around Jongin. “I know,” he says. He sounds as helpless as Jongin feels.

Jongin helps Taemin cook for a while. “I thought we decided to just order in after the kitchen nearly burnt down?” he asks when something explodes in the microwave in a shower of sparks.

“I’m starting to remember why,” Taemin admits with a nervous look towards the microwave.

They end up making something sort of edible and spend a good hour cleaning the kitchen afterwards. Taemin helps Jongin go through the exercises that are supposed to help him heal the right way. Taemin is very careful with him, always touches him so carefully now, afraid of hurting him more than he is already hurt.

After the last set of leg stretches, Taemin places his hand carefully on Jongin’s hip and Jongin just can’t fucking take it anymore. All the pent-up energy with nowhere to go, all the anxiety about the future, all the frustration about sitting at home like this make his blood boil.

“Stop touching me like I’m made of glass, Taemin,” he says, his voice harsher than intended. He sighs, “Sorry. I’m just – it’s – god, I can’t take this anymore. Please,” he buries his hand in Taemin’s hair, pulls him closer, “fuck me like you mean it. I really, really need-”

Taemin crushes their lips together, teeth and skin and wet heat, pulls Jongin in fast enough to make him lose his balance. Taemin holds him up with an ease that melts things inside Jongin, dips his head back with one hand in Jongin’s hair to deepen their kiss. Jongin pants into Taemin’s mouth. Whimpers pleas for more, more, more.

Taemin fucks him on the living room floor, hard and fast and messy, makes Jongin bite his tongue and scream his name.

After, when Taemin redresses Jongin’s ankle, making sure to apply more cooling ointment, Jongin breathes a deep sigh. “I really needed that. Thank you.”

Taemin grins. “My pleasure,” he says cheekily. “Anytime.” Jongin feels tingly all over. They cuddle up on the couch and Taemin buries into him, whispers “I love you,” lets Jongin wrap his arms around his slim body and hold him close. It makes Jongin feel warm and loved and important and enough.

25.

The light of the morning sun wakes Jongin. It spills over his skin, warm golden, with a beautiful hidden rainbow inside it that runs over his forearm. His body is sore from dance practice, a familiar burn reminding him that he gets to spend his life doing what he loves. Jongin blinks slowly, tries to remember where he is. The past weeks have been unusually hectic, even for him. He tries to at least remember which time zone he is in. His limbs are deliciously loose and heavy, his brain foggy with remaining sleep. He turns on his side and the world brightens in a split second, his lips curling into a wide smile. Taemin is on his front, head turned, mouth open, eyelashes dancing in a silent dream. Jongin can’t help himself, he reaches out to touch the cream of Taemin’s cheek, brushes a gentle finger across Taemin’s soft eyelids.

Taemin sighs, closes his mouth, his lips curving up. Jongin presses small kisses to Taemin’s skin, runs his fingers over the expanse of his chest, his arms, his messy hair. He watches the morning sun draw patterns of light on Taemin’s skin, making it shine bright gold. Jongin’s mind is still and calm, bathed in the same golden glow. He can’t really remember what he did yesterday, there was a show, he thinks. He worked hard for this tour, he always works hard. And he has the day off. He thinks he deserves the rest. He deserves some time with his love, just being himself. Jongin tilts Taemin’s head back a little, kisses his lips softly. Once. Twice. Taemin snuggles closer, wraps one leg around Jongin’s waist, rolls his body against him.

When Taemin opens his eyes, Jongin temporarily forgets how to breathe. He thinks dimly that he should be used to this by now, but his heart trips anyways.

Taemin smiles bright and relaxed and happy. “Good morning,” he whispers, his voice rough. He adds: “Bandmate.”

It is still a rush, a fever dream, that Jongin gets to spend all this time with Taemin. That he gets to see Taemin be the amazing artist that he is, that they get to create something together. The whole project made his anxiety rear up its ugly head again. But he is used to it by now, doesn’t let it control him anymore. He is still Kai on stage, but he lets the world see parts of Jongin sometimes, too. In little clips of himself in his real glasses, sharing his honest tears, his worries, his fears. He shares, too, how he still picks himself apart sometimes when he makes mistakes.

There are things he is still silent about, though. To the public, at least. He keeps his relationship with Taemin a secret. The fact that he is not interested in girls in that way. Sometimes he wishes he could share it all with the world, but he doesn’t dare to. Maybe he doesn’t owe it to anyone, maybe the most important thing is that the people he loves and care about know. But sometimes, when he looks at Taemin, thinks about all the things they have achieved, when he thinks back to the time when he was trying to erase himself and everything he was, in those moments he thinks he doesn’t want others to ever feel like he did. And he thinks about how brave Taemin is, about how brave Jongin tries to be. In those moments, he believes times may be changing and he wants to be part of what changes them. Jongin is so scared, still. But he is also very happy. He tries to think and feel and want, even when it is hard. He wants, he wants all the time. Wants Taemin’s skin against his own, wants to swallow all of his words of love and happiness, wants to taste his laughter and lick whimpered moans off his lips.

“I want waffles,” Taemin says into Jongin’s deep thoughts. Jongin laughs, his eyes squeezing all the way shut in happiness.

“Well, I want you,” he says and pulls Taemin into his lap.

Taemin moves his hips with a blinding smile, teasing, leans forward and nips at Jongin’s lips.

They make love, slow and quiet. Jongin whispers words of awe and praise against Taemin’s lips, into his sweat-slick skin, lets himself get lost in Taemin’s tight heat. The morning sunlight shatters into a million sparks of color around them when they finally come apart together.

Jongin is still catching his breath, Taemin curled up on his chest, when Taemin reaches for the phone on the night stand.

“Yeah, I would like two large orders of waffles, cream and everything,” he says, his tongue stumbling on the English words.

Jongin chuckles and cuddles Taemin closer, buries his face in Taemin’s neck. Taemin smells of warm linen and salt, of home even when they are abroad, of all his dreams. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” Jongin whispers.


End file.
